


Lockdown

by PeopleOfThePit



Category: In a Heartbeat (Short Film)
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Hostage Situation, Psychological Horror, School Lockdown
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-03-30 10:02:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13949232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeopleOfThePit/pseuds/PeopleOfThePit
Summary: Written by Dexter and Birb.Of course, the only time Sherwin came in late for class, he was greeted by an eerily empty school and some maniac with an oversized knife.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Birb wrote the scenario and all the effed up details of this fic, and I put everything into words. Hope you enjoy our angstfest.  
> -Dexter

Sherwin walked into school that day as he usually did, with that childlike naivete which somehow had not been diluted over the years. He smiled at the sun, the sky, the sound of the birds twittering in the trees, the fact that life in itself was beautiful and full of the wonders of nature. He thought of his boyfriend, and a skip entered his step as he walked along the pavement. Things were even more beautiful now. Everything was enveloped in a hazy aura of wonder which made the edges of all objects shimmer golden and dulled his senses. The redhead took the steps up to the front door of the school two at a time, not tripping as he usually did, then entered the cooler main hall, the sound of his footsteps changing as they went from slapping against concrete to squeaking on linoleum.

That was when the boy decided to look up to the clock affixed above the arch leading towards the classrooms, and instantly screeched to a halt, paling. The hands reflected his mood: the downward acute angle formed there indicated that he was late, and not just a little at that. He must have spent too much time daydreaming along the way, as he sometimes did. Still, he had never been twenty minutes late.

He sprinted through the corridors, slowing to a walk once he got to the corridor in which he had class. He stopped in front of his classroom door, raising a shy knuckle to the frosted glass before rapping against the wooden frame.

The sound bounced off the great stone walls over and over again, seeming to fill the whole building before they faded off, echoing through the arches and dying down after several minutes. Sherwin stayed motionless all that time, listening as he realised that the silence had great wings, and had long spread them over the entirety of the school. It didn’t sound natural. Even when all the kids were in class, there was always a small thrum, indicative of human presence. Now though… he heard nothing of that other than the huffs of his own breath, of which the rate and intensity increased as he tried to comprehend what was happening.

It couldn’t be a weekend today, he reasoned, as he pushed down on the classroom handle. It didn’t budge, as expected. Why was this class closed and the front gates to the school open then? Was everyone on a field trip which he wasn’t told about?

His reflection was interrupted by a dull tapping sound. They sounded like footsteps, even though they didn’t the academically hurried quality of both students and teachers alike. Still, they were human, at the very least.

“Hey, who is there?” he asked the empty corridor. The words echoed again, the footsteps stopping for a second, as if listening. They were quick to resume again though, the slow beat now seeming more hurried, to the point of matching the speed of a power walk.

This was the point where Sherwin was starting to get very, very anxious. There had been no reply, this was beyond odd. It was even odder when he actually caught sight of the person: he was not wearing the required uniform for students nor the abiding by the adult’s dress code restrictions: a greasy tank top and jeans obviously didn’t fall in the “respectable” category. However, the one thing which he should have seen at first, but which he must have blocking out mentally this whole time, was the object the unknown man held in his right hand.

The tip of the razor-sharp machete reflected the light blindingly, forcing Sherwin’s attention onto it and making him freeze, trembling as everything fell into place. Locked classrooms, but unlocked main door. The silence, despite being on a schoolday. The whole sense of  _ wrong _ .

_ Lockdown _ .

The single word, even if only pronounced in his thoughts, seemed to be heard by the man down the hallway as well as himself. The school was no longer silent as a scream filled the entire hallway, and the man charged, running way, way too quickly towards the small trembling boy. As if a switch had been flicked, Sherwin set off like an arrow in the opposite direction.

His breath was ragged and all his blood seemed to have been replaced with adrenaline as he ran. He ran for his life, the crazy person following him screaming for him to stop, insulting him with every slur under the sun. Sherwin ran, skidding around corner after corner, trying to not let his own shoes trip him up. He was blind fear, the huge knot of animalistic flight response taking over completely, blurring his vision and limiting his thoughts drastically.

It had to happen though. He took one corner too fast, and his shoes, not designed for running on slippery linoleum, betrayed him as only shoes could betray someone in this situation. Sherwin fell heavily, skidding a little and jarringly cracking his chin on the flooring. It hurt and dizzied him for a second, snapping him out of his instinctive fleeing long enough for him to assess his environment. He recognised where he was pretty clearly, and could tell that he was nowhere near an exit. In fact, he had somehow managed to get to the higher floors of the building, the contrary of even trying to strategically escape.

The redhead boy tried getting to his feet, dizziness taking over him as he tried, but he forced himself to. His knees trembled as they took his weight and a strong headache pierced through his skull, nearly making him fall again, but he was quick to start running when he heard the approaching pound of footsteps again.

He stumbled again, and again, not finding being able to find his balance at all. He turned his head, looking back.

The man was now two feet behind him.

An immense wave of energy immediately took over him, and with a scream which filled his own ears but he didn’t realise was his own, he bolted forward. The chase resumed, the incessant pounding of footsteps, heartbeats, blood in his ears and wild screams driving him onwards through corridor after corridor.

Sherwin’s breath was getting raspy though. He couldn’t go on forever, the adrenaline wouldn’t last. He needed air, no matter how much he wished he did not. He had to change tactics. He turned a corner and quickly screeched to a halt, backing up against the wall and observing the place he had arrived in with wild eyes, looking for anything which could help him get out of this situation. There was a window in the far corner, but there was no way he was going to fall and not at the very least get a broken leg; being reduced to utter defencelessness would not help him in the slightest. He pushed the neverless insistent promise of freedom away, and instead concentrated on another object in the room: a water fountain. Save the piping, there was a hollow space behind the metal cubicle in which he could crawl and hide. He quickly did so, pulling his knees to his chest and shivering.

Sweat pooled in the small of his back, on his forehead, the sensation of which he had not noticed before he had stilled. It was even seeping through his shirt, and even his sweater in some places.

Footsteps approached, getting closer and closer, but also, more terrifying still, they seemed to be slowing down. They arrived in the room, he could tell from the way they were no more muffled by wood-panelled walls. 

Subconsciously, he must have been counting the footsteps, for somehow the number “five” resonated in his brain when the dreaded silence filled the room. Five steps weren’t enough for one to cross the entire floorspace and exit into the second corridor leading off of the room. He was still here. Feet, maybe even  _ inches _ away. Sherwin couldn’t help but hear as his heart quickened, beating uncontrollably like a panicked, wild sparrow trying to be released from the confining bone cage of his chest. 

“Come out, come out, wherever you are…”

Suddenly, everything went still. No sound permeated through the sheer panic which had taken over his brain. It was as if cotton had been stuffed there alongside his thoughts, dimming everything so that they did not let his brain go into overdrive. The footsteps started up again, and slowly the boy came back to reality, instincts taking over as he tried to triangulate the position of the machete-wielding man in the room. 

From his calculations, he must have been near the window now. Maybe if he sprinted, he could just reach…

“Found you.”   
It was but a whisper, but it was so close that the redhead felt the man’s breath on his cheek, making goosebumps rise from his wrist to his shoulder. He scrambled immediately, leaving on the side of the water fountain opposite to the one where the man was standing, rushing to a corridor which simply didn’t exist anymore. 

The fire doors. Somehow, he had managed to close them without a noise, cutting off both his possible escape routes. They were too heavy for him to move without him being caught anyway.

There were two other options though. There was a classroom leading off from this room, one which he knew from experience Jonathan should have been attending that morning, and right next to it was a door leading off to a blind bathroom. A possible haven and a dead end.

His choice was quickly made. Sherwin rushed to the twin doors, slamming his shoulder hard into the wood and pushing down on the handle at the same time. It was no use though. His now throbbing shoulder indicated clearly that the door was not only locked, but barricaded on the inside. A lock would not have been able to withstand a body slam like he had initiated there. 

The boy looked back. It was a mistake, and he knew it, but he couldn’t help it. The man was coming closer and closer, but slowly, taking his time and swinging his machete in a leisurely fashion. He looked as confident as a panther approaching a wounded deer.

Sherwin couldn’t help it, he screamed. He shouted and cried, banging with both of his fists on the door, shouting, begging for the people on the other side to open up.

“Oh, so you’re a screamer? I like you the best, if I am to be perfectly honest… You’re entertaining.”

That was too much for the boy; with a spike of panic, he rushed to the second door, letting out a muffled screech, opening it and slamming it hard as he did. The bathroom was indeed window-less, making the place feel even more like a trap than it actually was. It was too late, but he could at least attempt to hide. With muffled sobs and tripping over every other tile, he dragged himself to the furthest stall and huddled into the corner, the bit that the janitor could never quite get to with his mop, the place between the toilet bowl and the wall. When the door to the bathroom was kicked down, Sherwin jumped, banging an elbow against hard porcelain in his tight hiding spot hard enough for stars to spark in his vision. 

“Hiding again, aye? Well, this sure is a neat little game you're playing, but you don't want me to get too impatient now, don't you?” 

The manic laugh tore through the building, loud enough to be heard by all and confirming that Sherwin was in fact doomed. The man was taking a sadistic pleasure in dragging the whole process out though, as the footsteps were very slow, and he even started whistling in the loudly echoing room. The redhead boy was now sobbing uncontrollably, louder than the footsteps sounded, even. This was it. He was going to die, cornered like a rabbit in the dirtiest part of a high school bathroom. 

Suddenly, a loud crash sounded, accompanied by the one of splintered wood. Sherwin stopped crying and went deadly quiet. 

“Not in this stall, aye? Well, we've got all the time in the world, I'll eventually find you, carrot head, you'll see… This is going to be very fun for both of us, I promise.” 

This time, Sherwin didn't make a sound. He flinched and covered his ears when the sound of the second door being broken down filled his head, the one thought cycling over and over being:  _ Two out of five  Sherwin. Two out of five stalls _ . 

The countdown couldn't have been more nerve-wracking. He knew exactly how much time was going to pass until his probable death, and it seemed infinite and way too short at the same time. 

He just had time to regret not having kissed Jonathan at least once when the third door was flung from its hinges, accompanied by a scream which made the boy cower somehow even more than he was already. 

“COME OUT, YOU LITTLE FUCK ! I'M GETTING IMPATIENT, STOP PLAYING AROUND!” 

It may have been the insult, or the fact that the words sounded so, so much like the ones Jonathan has described to him, the ones his boyfriend had suffered through for years, but he started crying again. His tears were silent this time, more ones of intense sadness than of gut-wrenching fear. He didn't realise that he had started humming, either, in a futile attempt to block out his thoughts of what was to happen next. His humming only intensified, became loud enough to make his throat sore when the crash of the fourth door resounded  and then… 

“So this is where you're hiding.” 

The stall door was opened slowly, civilly. In a way, it was even more frightening, but Sherwin was far past that stage of hurt. He simply looked up at the man, notes soft in his throat, eyes begging for a swift and painless release. 

“I win,” he stated, leaning in as far as he could. His face was so close that their noses nearly touched, no matter how far the boy tried to lean away. He tried dropping his chin, but the cold, terrifying bite of the blade forced him to look up again. 

Why did he have to have blue eyes. Why. 

“Please… sir…” the redhead whispered, but didn't manage to complete. 

“No use in bartering, boy. I came here for some fun and I'm going to get it,” he whispered back. He licked his lips, which made Sherwin’s eyes widen in newfound terror and forced a scream to crawl up his neck. 

“Now you're going to sing for me, my sweet little red angel,” he said, but half his sentence was lost on the boy, as the world faded to black, his body finally giving out and finding its final refuge in the tendrils of the void.

 


	2. Chapter 2

It was weird to see the classroom as empty as it was, the floor cleared of all desks and the walls of furniture, lighter rectangles on the paint marking where the bookcases and supply lockers had been stood before. Now, all that furniture was condensed and pushed up against the sole door, a huge mass which was more or less impenetrable. 

“So basically we’re trapped if ever that guy decides to gas us out,” Jonathan grumbled. 

“I think not. We've got windows, remember?” Thomas was quick to snap back. The blond had developed the annoying habit of contesting Jonathan every time he opened his mouth to speak, and it was becoming frankly annoying. 

“Fine then. How about the madman decides to climb up the building’s side and enter through the window? We'd have nowhere to escape, we would all be crowding the one window to try and get out in time, and chances are most of us will fall. Or be slaughtered.”

The boy had gone as white as a sheet throughout his speech, even turning slightly green at times. It was satisfying to see that yet again, Jonathan had won the battle, even though the war was between them still raging on. With a dismissive huff, the blond walked off and joined his friends, who were for the most part huddled in a corner. The brunet watched him leave dismissively, still standing in the middle of the room. What difference would it make, if they were sitting or standing? They’ll still be met with the same fate.  

Roman, his forever heavy-hearted twin brother, was rubbing off on him again. Jonathan was never this pessimistic, but it must have been the encounter with Thomas which had irritated him. Yes, that was it. It wasn’t at all due to the fact that he had not even caught a glimpse of Sherwin this morning. No, not at all.

There was a lump in his throat, which no matter how much he tried to ignore it, just wouldn’t budge. An apprehension, a small voice in the back of his head, one which saw beyond the walls of the closed classroom, maybe. One which amplified when, in the distance, a cry reached them, one of pain and horror, blood-curdling by the fear it transported. 

The room, which had previously been filled with quiet murmurs, went deathly quiet. He had found someone. The man had found prey, despite their best efforts to avoid such a thing. In that moment, Jonathan felt his knees tremble, and they would have given out beneath him if he had not immediately heard the sound of racing footsteps, the squeaks and shrieks. These were not the ones of a group of excited thirteen-year-olds, however, but the one of a terrified child, racing for their life.

Why were the classrooms so badly sound-insulated?

Jonathan stared at the barricaded door, eyes trying to bore through the wood, to push it aside and to save the poor soul beyond. That would put everyone else in danger, though. So with a shuddery breath, he closed his eyes halfway and prayed. He prayed that the person beyond would be spared, would find a place that will keep them away from the madman. It hurt, as Jonathan was used to helping, to putting himself before others, but he had to come to his senses: there was nothing he could do for the time being. 

The footsteps seemed to be getting closer, close enough for them to be able to pinpoint exactly where the unfortunate person was. They were in the hall, so close that they could hear their panicked breaths. At this point, all had faded around Jonathan. The slight wheeze underlying that breath… that was one he recognised. He could not remember from where it could have been exactly, but the dread only became stronger. His brain grasped desperately at shreds of his memories, of gym and the concert of huffing which never failed to be raised in that class. Trying to pinpoint that one friend who had that very distinctive breathing pattern.

All the while, he was blocking out the one most terrifying, awful possibility, the one which made his whole body shake and want to throw up when the thought first hit him. 

“Sherwin…”

The name came out in a pained whine, the only sound to be heard anywhere, other than the slow one of footsteps tapping slowly, way too slowly on the linoleum. The words which he then shouted, loud enough to make even Thomas, of all people, wince. The pure malice in the fakefully playful tone which came beyond the door planted fear in everyone’s brains, and they all wondered, in a morbid kind of curiosity, what the fate of the unfortunate student would be if he were ever found. 

Their questions were quickly answered, as the class’ breath caught in their throats when they heard the few simple words, followed by the sound of scrambling the panicked skitter of dress shoes on the floor. 

They slammed against the door, and then they started shouting, and everyone’s blood froze in their veins. Words could be distinguished this time, and more importantly, a voice. For a second, Jonathan thought that it was fake, that this was all a big joke to make him unwind, to destroy his very soul, but it wasn’t the case. He knew.

The person begging, pleading for his life on the other side of those wretched, petty pieces of furniture, was Sherwin. 

And Jonathan, despite being barely a few feet away, was incapable of saving him. 

He shouted, but he knew straight away that he wouldn’t be heard over the sound of Sherwin’s screams. He was louder than him, he was fighting for his life, after all. Jonathan saw white. He lunged at the barricade, tearing at the chairs, pulling the desks off of the pile which was stood there. He had managed to pull out three desks before hands grasped at him, covered his mouth and pinned his arms behind his back. He bit down, as desperate as an enraged animal, and the person let go. Sherwin’s cries had stopped, but loud banging signaled that he was now in the bathroom next door. Breathing heavily, Jonathan crumbled. He fell to the ground and buried his face in his hands, barely hearing the rhythmic slam of the stalls being opened, one by one. Sherwin was out there, and there was no way he was going to be able to help him.

Arms wrapped around his huddled form, rocking him back and forth and petting his hair. He didn’t know who it was, but at this point he didn’t care. Sherwin. Sherwin was going to be hurt. And… he couldn’t even think of the other possibility.

He couldn’t imagine living in a world without him by his side.

* * *

The huge headache buzzed through the redhead’s temples, and he tried to wriggle away from the rough grasp on his face, the bright light shining into his right eye. 

“Good, you’re alive. Wake up, little angel, I want to have some fun.”

The man let go of his face, not without stroking his cheek as he did, and Sherwin shuddered and pulled away automatically in disgust. His eyes were screwed shut again, concentrated on trying to stop the nausea from rising up and spilling over, trying to remember where he was, exactly, and what had happened. 

It didn’t take long for his brain to catch up with his body, and he shuddered and pulled back even more, slamming his back against a wall and crying out when he grazed his knuckles on the concrete. His hands were tied behind his back, and a slight tug indicated that this was ducktape, strongly wound around and around and applied in too many layers for him to ever hope breaking by himself. 

“Aww, don’t be scared… You won’t be hurt, little angel boy, just remember to do everything I say, and don’t fight back, ok?”

Tears were running down the boy’s cheeks now, and he tentatively opened his eyes again, the light from the overhead lamp refracting and blurring everything in the small room. Slowly, things came back into focus, but he would have preferred if they had stayed blurred, really. His heart started beating faster, and  _ not _ in the good way, when he caught sight of the machete man again. Those blue eyes bore into his soul, tried to pick away at it like a mine, the very opposite of what Jonathan’s eyes inspired him. But like a snake and a mouse, they held him hypnotised, and he was incapable of tearing away from them. 

“Alright, my little treasure, what is your pretty little name then?” he asked, voice sweet but… a form of  _ lust,  _ of all things, glistening in his eyes. He brought the blade up and pointed it at Sherwin’s lips, something which made the boy hesitate saying anything, as he knew how sharp the oversized knife was. The last thing he wanted was to make the man mad, so he spoke, the syllables of his name never having felt quite as heavy to pronounce, weighing down his tongue to the point of slurring.

“Sherwin,” he whispered, still pinned by the glacier eyes. He was lucky, the blade was not quite close enough to cut him, but he felt the cold rising up from its surface, making him tremble. Suddenly, the man smiled, pulling the knife back, and the boy nearly let out a sigh of relief. He was no longer being threatened directly.

“Aww, such a good, good boy,” the man said out loud, moving another step forward. He was close, too close, and it was nearly worse than having the weapon shoved in his face. The redhead started trembling again, closing his eyes when a hand came close. He pulled his head into his shoulders, holding his breath. What was he going to do? Hit him? Pull his hair? He didn’t know, but he was certain that it was going to be painful, awful, unkind…

He didn’t expect the hand gently petting his hair. He didn’t like it. He only ever let Jon and his mom play with his hair, and they knew what he tolerated and what he didn’t. This, the slight pulling on his locks, letting them go to watch them spring back… that was something he couldn’t stand. He whimpered, but it turned into a growl, one which rose in his throat and filled the room. 

The petting stopped, but the fingers didn’t leave his hair. Slowly, the hand grasped his locks, tightening and pulling him up, forcing him to his feet while keeping his back flush to the tiled wall. 

He was fully standing now, on his tiptoes even, head forced up and eyes boring into the madman’s. The pull on his hair was excruciating, but he couldn’t stretch himself up more. He hated this. The hand in his hair was the last straw, one thing he would not let pass, so his gaze had turned from fearful to stony, and had unveiled his teeth, angrier than he ever was.

The man chuckled at this. He seemed happy, for some reason, that lusty look in his eye returning and making Sherwin back down a little, but not by much. This was scary, but maybe it would preserve him from the worst if he put up a fight. 

“Oooh… So, little angel, you’re not as pure as I thought. Nice, very nice. I like the feisty ones too, you’re more… interesting,” he said between chuckles. One hand still holding him up, and the other now pressing against his stomach, machete abandoned on the floor with a clatter in his haste, the man leaned in closer. If the proximity had been uncomfortable before, it was now terrifying. He wasn’t sure what to do, what was happening, this felt wrong in all the possible ways. 

Sherwin still had that small wave of contestation left though, that little bit of rage which prevented him from turning into a puddle of complete terror. Pulling all of that together, he took in a deep breath, and brought his knee up between the man’s legs as hard as he possibly could. 

Both of them paled, one in pain, the other in fright, before they both crumbled to the ground, one bringing down the other as he fell. Sherwin quickly got up, kicked the machete away and sprinted for the door, slamming his shoulder into it and making it swing open. He was now in the small hall, euphoria taking over as he realised he was now  _ free _ . He laughed, skipped, turned around and joyfully cried “You deserved that, sucker!”, before bolting down the corridor, only slightly slowed down by his hands still being tied behind his back. He reached the door, the main one which would lead to the stairs, and tried pushing on the bar supposed to open it up.

The door didn’t budge. 

Immediately, the colour left his face. He tried pushing again, and again, but it still didn’t move in the slightest. He turned around as a sound was heard from where he had come from, and there, framed in the corridor, stood the madman. This time, he was not playful, however. His posture, every line of his body was poised in the attitude of the enraged hunter, the one who had been spitted and who now seeked revenge, who wished to wash the affront in blood. 

It was over. Sherwin slammed into the door again, but it was in vain. He slumped, fearful, but knowing there was no other choice than to accept his fate. He looked at the corner formed by the door and the wall, marvelling at how shiny the hinges were. Anything to take his mind off what was coming. He started humming, lowly, just enough to cover the sound of the footsteps, hating the fact that he could not cover his ears with his hands so as to only hear the music in his head. It brought him back to happy times, to those heartfelt duets between him and his boyfriend, those moments lost in time which allowed them to escape the sad reality of how their relationship would be viewed.

The footsteps were closer now, and the tears tracked down Sherwin’s cheeks in great rivers. But still he didn’t stop singing, letting his heart escape that way.

The knife was under his chin now, some of the tears splashing onto the blade, but still he didn’t stop humming. He raised his head to avoid being cut, but the blade still dug into the soft skin, drawing blood.

“Playtime is over, you little fucker. It’s time for things to get serious.”


End file.
